Beyond the Point of No Return
by Angelic Lawyer
Summary: Three years had gone by after they said farewell and Erik's life was filled with grief while Christine found that only regret could accompany her. Apart, one is oblivious to the other's problems, but fate may bring them together once again.


**A/N:** I worked on this phic for months! It taught me how I can be unbearably perfectionist when I want to. Every morning during my vacations, I edited it again and again, searching for the right words. I can say now that I'm happy with the result, even though I still think I need more time with it. Please, tell me your opinions about this piece and let me know if there's any grammatical error.

*Grammar corrections added! Even so, don't hesitate on telling me that I missed an error… 

**Disclaimer**: Unfortunately (or fortunately, who knows...) I don't own any of the characters mentioned here. They belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Lloyd Webber etc. etc.

At first, he simply ignored the insistent raindrops that were falling on his head, looked around and tried to detect any disaccord in the silence's symphony. The houses exhibited a quiet opulence and the streets were deserted – no one was sufficiently mad to go out at the imminence of a storm.

No one but Erik. This was the only time in the day when he could leave his flat and walk with no fear on the streets. That night, he decided that he wouldn't desist of his walk just because of a silly rain.

When the sound of the church bells announced the midnight from far away, however, he regretted this decision. The rain was so strong that, unless that he wanted to get ill, he found that couldn't persist anymore and began to look for a covering. The best place he could find was under one of the many arches that adorned the entrance of a building that appeared majestic even in the semi-darkness and that made a lot of remembrances invade his mind in a swirl: the Opera Garnier. 

No doubt that its walls had witnessed the most important events of his life. Only in this place he had learnt what it was to care for another human being and to renounce everything for this person's sake. 

That remarkable construction had maintained a tradition of ingratitude since its first gala night, when every important member of the high society had been invited, although Charles Garnier, the man who had built the place, had been asked to pay for his own entrance.

With Erik, it hadn't been different. The people in the Opera had treated him as the vilest creature on Earth.  Fortunately, Nadir had arranged a flat for him right after the mob invasion and his escapement. Though he hadn't had the heart to go back there, he knew they had destroyed and sacked his underground lair.

Since then, he became dead to the world and the world became dead to him; he chose to live like the monstrosity people considered he was, without any contact with the outside world and its trivial events.  

Soon he had discovered how difficult it would be. All his efforts to control his own discharges of rage in the limited space of his flat had been depleted in a question of weeks and even his music had been useless, transformed into nothing more than a way to survive. He started to compose average music; simple notes that couldn't relieve his own sadness, dedicated merely to one's brief joy. By mail, he sent them to be published and gained the necessary to carry on, accompanied by the publishers' demonstrations of gratitude that he was sure he would never receive if people knew they were buying the Opera Ghost's compositions.

Only one person had shown real gratitude for him and he truly believed that chorus girl was his salvation.

She could be in Sweden now, or in Paris. He dared not search for her again lest he spoil her happiness; and her happiness was all that mattered, even if it meant his own grief. Wherever she could be, he doubted that she could think of him as more than a figure haunting the nightmares he fervently hoped to be rare in her calm nights, but he could still keep a clear memory of her and the moments of happiness – the only ones in his entire life – that she had given to him. 

Christine glanced at the statue of Apollo when a thunderbolt hit the golden lyre it was holding. Like everything in the Opera Garnier, that sculpted god was very close to Heaven and, at the same time, completely ignorant about the Hell under its feet.

She had lived like that too. Three years ago, an angel had let her touch Heaven in the sweetest times of her life. But when this angel had gone, only Hell waited for her – after a few weeks of uninterrupted bustle, the Opera Populaire went back to its routine of arrogance, jealousy and luxury. 

She had come to the realization that she couldn't marry Raoul, for she didn't love him. "I've already used enough of my favoritism" were the last words the highborn man had said to her, glaring at her with frosty blue eyes when she returned his ring. Later, the managers convinced her with very good manners that her talent hadn't been sufficient to hold her job. 

Never again she saw the boy who had saved her scarf from the hunger of the sea. Only in the newspapers, when his engagement with the daughter of a friend of the de Chagny family had been announced, five months after his abandon of the Opera's patronage.

She had tried to get another job and worked in many places, but hadn't remained in any of them for a long time. She had acknowledged that the only thing she could do in her life was sing, but only one person really wanted to hear her voice – and even that person had forsaken her. Or had it been the contrary? Hadn't been _her _the one that had forsaken him? In the end, it was all a spiral of facts. But all the same, she knew she had her parcel of guilt. She wanted nothing now, in this period of emptiness, but to revive the moments of music, thoughtfulness and – why not admit? – true love she had left behind that night in the underground lair. With a sigh, she wondered for the thousandth time how different her life would have been if she had stayed with him. What would Erik say if he could know she had abandoned her musical career? What if he knew and was avoiding her, disgusted by her lack of perseverance? 

In the beginning, she had tried to contact Erik through Madame Giry, but not even the ballet mistress had known where to find him. Nobody knew his whereabouts or if he was still alive. Nowadays, the Girys kept being her best friends, helping her whenever she needed. 

During the last four weeks, the circumstances had obliged her to stay in Meg's flat every night until it was late enough to go back to her own flat and avoid the countless demands for the payment of her bills.

Every night, she walked fearfully on the streets, for she had no money to pay for a coach. Meg invited her to sleep in her home at least during that rainy night, but she knew she was a hindrance to the new prima ballerina and declined her invitation.

After watching the scene with Apollo's lyre, Christine concluded that walk with the umbrella borrowed from Meg wasn't exactly the best thing to do in the middle of a storm. She searched for a place from where she could wait until the rain subside and hurried to the only one that was available – in the entrance of the Paris Opera building.

Erik could have easily disappeared at sight of that woman coming in his direction, but a kind of presentiment held him back and he just stepped aside, letting her choose a place to stay.

She looked with unguarded curiosity at that quiet stranger. She hadn't noticed that he was there until he made a discreet move, permitting her to step into the improvised shelter. She looked up to thank him but didn't see his face, concealed by a hat; only his chin was visible and she could see that he was very pale, as though he had never walked in the sunlight. He was dressing an opera cloak, but as far as she was concerned, the Opera Charles Garnier – the only place that man could belong to – was temporary closed with the end of the last season...

He stayed silent, sensing her eyes scanning him. Even with the masked side of his face hidden by a hat, he was afraid that she could somehow see it and look at him with increasing interest. After all, a masked man next to the Opera was sufficient to remind anyone of the already forgotten but still infamous Phantom. Much to his relief, after a few seconds, she stared back at the rain and it was his turn to observe her. He couldn't avert his eyes from that woman who had climbed the marble stairs with natural grace, but wore an ungracious worn gray cloak. A hood protected her identity and provided her the same aura of mystery that encompassed him, but a futile involuntary gesture of her hands was enough to make him notice their incredible similarity with the only hands that had brought some comfort into his tormented existence. _It's an illusion_, his mind told him. _Christine is sleeping beside her husband now._

He had no time to feel the rush of pain that went through him every time he painted such images, because at that moment his gaze met his companion's and Erik could surely recognize the owner of that blue eyes – as blue as the sky he was still unused to see.

"Erik?" she asked suddenly, her voice carried away by the noisy rain. Christine had felt the weight of his gaze since the very first moment she had been standing there, almost by his side. For so many times she had felt it before that its intensity had become unconfoundable to her, in spite of the years that had passed by. Nevertheless, she refused to believe that it was really he until the instant when she had had the courage to lower her hood and look into his eyes, getting lost in the deep darkness within them, a darkness that equalized with the darkness of the night.

"Christine," he called with breathless certainty, his voice transporting her again to her old dressing room, during one of their lessons, when her only joy was to hear his praises, given with the gentleness that only Erik possessed.

They couldn't speak for several minutes, each one absorbed on their own mixture of feelings. Christine stepped forward with timidity, wondering if she dared to stay just inches away from him, and Erik closed his eyes, taking a deep shaky breath, when her fingers brushed lightly through his hair as she took his hat off.

"Christine... What are you doing here?" he murmured, not even attempting to disguise his disbelief.

"I ask you the same, my Angel," she said mildly.

"You know I am far from being an angel," he retorted, "don't call me that."

"Music is a gift from God, Erik," she replied softly, leaning forward, "and you compose the most wonderful pieces. For this, you always will be the Angel of Music."

If there were a wall next to him, Erik would have certainly revealed his own turmoil clasping his hand on it, seeking for support to bear the loving look she gave to him and the apparent naturalness of that encounter. Christine addressed him with something close to what he could discern as care and her face was even lovelier with a faint smile dancing on her lips, as though she had been waiting for this moment to come. And, as if her presence and her touch didn't exerted the same bewildering effect over him anymore, he maintained his cold façade, trying to ignore his accelerated heartbeat and drawing several deep breaths to contain the unbearable longing that had assaulted him as soon as he had become aware of her closeness. He wanted to go back in time, to really become her Angel of Music and once again drink in her beauty from behind the mirror, saying reticent words of affection. But instead, he struggled to avoid the subjects related to the past, knowing that those times would never come back.

"I don't have a warm home to go to," he answered her previous question, angling his face in the shadows and trying not to show too much sentiment in his voice, so she could not even guess how miserable he felt, "on the contrary of you."

"On the contrary of me? You're believing in an illusion," she protested, afflicted. Now she knew why she hadn't met him again despite her desperate efforts. Erik thought that she was content with the choice she had supposedly made and that his presence would only bring again the terror that had always accompanied the legendary Phantom of the Opera. What an irony... "Things have changed, Erik. I don't have a warm home to go to. I am not a prima donna; I don't even have a job! I'm all alone."

Her eyes revealed a sorrow that Erik wasn't expecting to see and he noticed the dark circles under them for the first time. The image of a happy Christine with le Vicomte was immediately shattered. But what had she said? She _wasn't_ a prima donna? And her voice… the voice he had taught, the voice that he had implored to hear again during his long hours of loneliness…? How could the managers deny its unparalleled beauty? There was only one answer, only one spoiled boy who could have made Christine be rejected.  He took some steps toward her and said the words that he couldn't suppress to confirm the obviousness of her affirmation, "Didn't you marry the viscount?"

"No, Erik," she shook her head vaguely, then stared at him. "And I think we both know why."

"I don't. Why don't you tell me?" he backed off more to gain time to register her words than to truly distance himself, and regretted his sarcasm, which disguised so well his immense stupefaction. 

"I couldn't marry Raoul, because my heart belongs to someone else," she explained with the simplicity of someone that was telling a general truth. 

He looked away, heart pounding. "I see."

"Nothing has changed, Erik," she sighed, stepping closer to him. "You're still far way and I'm still praying to have you close to me once again... maybe the time has come that we shall make some changes." 

She reached out with resolution and removed his mask, caressing gently his cheek. Her touch made him forget every objection and Erik surrendered completely to it when she pulled slightly closer to the two of his long fingers that had dared to brush the smooth skin of her cheek. 

"Three years, Erik... It felt like an eternity," she whispered.

"It _was_ an eternity, Christine," he said, bringing her gently into his arms.

"Please, don't leave me," she pleaded; savoring the warmth of the embrace she had longed for all the time. 

"Don't worry, my dear," he murmured in a sheltering tone. "I will never leave you."

Realizing that words were no longer necessary, he tipped her chin with a caress and tenderly met his lips with hers, sealing definitely all the unspoken terms of love. 

The sunshine reflected on the pools of water left by the rain on the night before. The citizens started to leave their houses, retaking their daily routines. Those people would never know about the two shadows that had left when the sun rose; after all, in their minimized lives, the knowledge of someone's infinite happiness wouldn't matter that much.

For three years, the two shadows had been seeking for an answer to that question made on the night that had been converted into one more tale in the Opera's History. Now, they knew what waited for them beyond the point of no return.


End file.
